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I want to say, “Let’s see how long you last,” but I bite it down. There’s no point in giving her ammunition.

“Just keep up,” I say, and walk past the counter. I don’t glance back, but I can feel her watching, measuring, running the same background check on me in her head. “And I might give you a chance to keep this position.”

Inside the private corridor, the temperature is even lower, and the lights have that fake-dawn hue that’s supposed to keep people awake but just makes me feel like I’m in a hospital. I pull up short at my office, take one steadying breath, and clench the door handle until the metal creaks. I can’t shake the sense that I’m off my game.

* * *

The quiet inside my office is absolute, sealed by two inches of soundproof glass and a decade of not tolerating bullshit. I start pacing, six steps from the door to the window and back again, hands behind my back like a cartoon general. Every step is supposed to bleed off the irritation, but all it does is wind the spring tighter.

I replay the lobby scene. Her voice. The way she actually looked me in the eye without flinching.

Trying to focus is a waste of my goddamn time. I have an o-seven-thirty call with the mayor’s office to discuss our security audit proposal for the new courthouse building. Then immediately following, another call with the IT contractor who’s probably overcharging me by twenty percent and laughing about it with his pals. There’s always an endless line of things to do, but the most pressing is figuring out Natalie Hollister and why she has this crazy effect on both my heart and my cock. Those two organs haven’t ever given me this kind of issue, so I’m a little thrown off my game.

I click on my laptop to check my calendar. The congressional call is already highlighted, moved to the top just like I told her. City council is bumped. There’s a line item about the public defender meeting, annotated with “per your direction, rescheduled after close.” I click into the notes. “I assume you’ll want a double bourbon on the rocks after,” it reads.

Fucking hell. This woman already knows me.

At six-sixteen on the dot, there’s a knock at the door. One knuckle. The short, precise sound sends a little spark through my blood.

“Come in,” I bark, sharper than intended.

She strides into the room, a sleek tablet already in her grasp, her fingers delicately poised on the stylus as if ready to capture thoughts at a moment's notice. She remains standing, a subtle assertion of her authority. "You said you wanted to see the agenda," she states firmly, her voice devoid of any questioning lilt.

With a swift, fluid motion, she places the tablet on my desk, smoothly rotating it until the screen is angled toward me. Then, she retreats a step, her hands seamlessly folding behind her back, embodying a stance reminiscent of a soldier at parade rest.

I examine the first page with keen eyes. It's flawless. Priorities have been meticulously reordered, leaving no room for unnecessary clutter. Every inch of space is utilized efficiently, presenting just the schedule and essential supporting documents. The briefing packets I had requested the previous night are already preloaded, waiting at my fingertips. The memos are carefully redlined, and for each call, the talking points are neatly accompanied by links to pertinent news clips, ensuring I'm fully prepared.

“You accomplished all of this since six?” I inquire, a hint of admiration in my voice.

She shrugs, not casual, not defensive, just stating a fact. "I got in at five. Needed time to review the contracts from last week and your last three memos to the city manager." A half-beat pause. "Your writing style is quite bracing."

I arch a brow. “Didn’t realize you were a literary critic.”

She allows herself a tight smile. “I’ve read worse. I’ve written worse, probably. But your point comes through.”

I look up. Her gaze is steady again. She’s not staring me down, just refusing to drop her eyes first. It would be impressive if it weren’t so annoying. And so goddamn appealing.

“Where’d you work last?” I ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to see how she delivers it.

“Lusk Holdings,” she says. “Executive admin for their COO.”

“They let you go?”

She shakes her head. “I let myself go. HR issue with the EVP. He liked to corner female employees at after-hours events. I told him to go fuck himself. He didn’t appreciate my candor.”

I stare, trying to figure out if she expects sympathy or if this is a warning shot. Her expression is flat, not a trace of wounded pride.

“You’ll find I don’t tolerate that sort of thing here,” I say.

She smiles, for real this time, and it transforms her face into something softer, but not softer in the way I’d like. “So I’ve read,” she says. “That’s why I applied.”

I scroll through the rest of her agenda. Every name and time are double-checked, links and call-in numbers triple-confirmed. The IT guy even has a sticky note attached to his time slot, which reads, “Possibly padding invoices. See attached spreadsheet for questionable line items.”

“Do you have a problem with authority, Ms. Hollister?” I say, and it comes out harsher than I mean.

She tilts her head, considering. “Not if it’s earned.”

And there’s the challenge. Not overt, but as clear as day.

I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the desk. “I run a tight ship here. If you can’t keep up or if you get in the way, you’re gone. No drama, no hard feelings.”

She nods like this is the most reasonable proposition in the world. “That’s my preference, too.”

We’re back to silence, the air charged but not uncomfortable. She’s not waiting to be dismissed, and I realize I like that.

“Fine,” I say. “You can have a six-week trial period. Don’t make me regret it.”

She offers her hand, not for a shake but more as a symbolic gesture. “Looking forward to it,” she says.

I hesitate, then take her hand, grip firm. Her skin is warm and silky with short, well-manicured nails. Electricity courses down my spine, reminding me of the pesky feelings she causes. She lets go first and I breathe a sigh of relief.

She collects her tablet, pivots toward the door, then stops. “You should eat breakfast before your seven-thirty. Sugar crashes make you snappish.”

She says it without inflection, and before I can retort, she’s gone.

I sit in my chair, staring at the closed door. I’m not sure if I want to fire her, promote her, or fuck her until we’re too tired to argue. And for the first time in weeks, the idea of getting through a Monday doesn’t sound like a punishment.

This is going to be motherfucking interesting.